Empire (Empire 1)

“So he’s doing something,” said Margaret. “And you’re . . . hiding.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.”

“Your uncle Peter is dead, dear. And he never cared about politics.”

“He cared about it all the time.”

“Yugoslavian politics, yes. American politics, no. The body count was so much lower in America, it was hard for him to stay interested.”

“Come on. Under Tito there was no politics.”

“No national politics. Local got very intense. Anyway, we’re not talking about my late husband the Serbian atheist, God bless him. Remember, you weren’t the first in the family to marry a Serb.”

“We were talking about how you think I’m supposed to do something instead of sitting here nursing an ulcer.”

“That’s not a nice thing to call your little boy John Paul.”

“I don’t work in government anymore, Auntie M.”

“And all the people that you used to know, they died? They emigrated to Ireland or Morocco?”

“Nobody that I knew could possibly have had anything to do with this.”

“But they could have something to do with helping you find out things that will help your husband. For instance, there was a Congressman you once worked for who just got a sudden job promotion.”

“And if I call him right now—assuming I could even get through—he’d assume I’m asking for a job.”

“So you tell him that you’re not, you just want some help, you know your husband did nothing wrong.”

“He knows my husband did nothing wrong.”

“Does he? I didn’t remember you were even married when you worked for him.”

Aunt Margaret was right. In fact, the idea of trying to get Congressman Nielson—no, President Nielson—to help protect Reuben had already occurred to her, in a vague sort of way, but she always pushed the thought out of her mind because she didn’t want to be the kind of person who suddenly calls somebody the minute he becomes President. Office seekers. Hire me, make me important, put me in the White House.

Besides, there was that White House switchboard to deal with. She’d be routed . . . somewhere.

Not that LaMonte was in the White House yet. He had officially said that the First Lady could take all the time she needed to vacate the White House. In fact, the rumored quote was, “I like the house I live in, and I can commute.” But everyone knew that was a ludicrous idea—it put too much of a burden on the Secret Service, which was already humiliated by having failed to protect the last President.

So where was he? What happened to his staff? No way would he go anywhere without Sandy, the battleaxe who ran his office—and his staff, especially the young wet-behind-the-ears aides like she had been—as if they were prisoners who had just been brought back from an escape attempt. And Sandy might even remember her.

What was Sandy’s last name? She’d always just been . . . Sandy.

“Where’s the phone?” asked Cecily.

“Long distance? On my telephone? What, is your cellphone out of batteries?”

“You’re the one who wanted me to get involved.”

“Right, you involved, me not paying for anything except the vast quantities of food your children eat.”

“They don’t eat vast quantities, you just cook vast quantities.”

“I want them not to die of starvation like fashion models.”

Cecily got her cellphone out of her purse and then dialed LaMonte’s office number from memory. After all these years.

Except in the meantime he had become Speaker. So the number got her somebody else. That was fine. “I’m such an idiot,” she said. “Can you give me the phone number of the Speaker’s office?”